Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Kim Jong-il: Welcome to Godhood

Note: unlike many guest pieces on Et tu, Mr. Destructo? today's article comes from a real, live person: Dear Leader Kim Jong-il, former Supreme Leader of North Korea and General Secretary of the Workers' Party of Korea, who evades foreign intelligence agencies by pretending to work the finance beat for the press in another Asian country. He last wrote about North Korea to debunk entertaining myths about the DPRK. He joins us today for his funeral.

Dear Leader

If you're reading this, Jong-un, my spirit has already departed my totally ripped bod and is now soaring with the Manchurian cranes above the sacred peaks of Mt. Paektu. I probably expired after a lifetime of on-the-spot field guidance and direction finally depleted my physical resources.

This is more exhausting than most people think. I mean, your average Kim Joe-Blow might believe that a nuclear physicist is capable of splitting atoms without the Leader's input, or that a seventh-generation pig farmer has a suitable degree of animal husbandry knowledge without the Leader weighing in. Well let me tell you, we did not crack the top 200 nations in terms of GDP per capita (suck my chubby, Lesotho and Bangladesh!) by delegation.

It's an unfortunate truth, but our peoples are really, really shit stupid, and they need to be shown how to do everything. I swear, I don't know how many times I had to tell Jo Jae-yong, manager of the Huichon Ryonha General Machinery Plant in Jagang Province, to keep on making some machines.

"Faster, Jae-yong!" I'd say, "I don't care that you don't have any more sheet metal because we reneged on paying our Chinese suppliers. Use Juche!"

Again and again, I had to instruct Ri Il-nam, head of a sub-workteam of the Samjigang Co-op Farm in Jaeryong County, that seeds go into the ground and then after a suitable amount of time, vegetables are pulled out. It's like, each time I'd describe the process, he'd look at me like I was weaving word gold from my tonsils. Cause I was! And Jesus Christ, I'm like a broken record with these farmers: "Use more night soil!" How are we going to produce a bumper crop to feed our mighty Army of Songun if you're not boosting yields by mixing your shit in with the ground? "Shmee, shmee. We don't have enough night soil." Well, eat more, goddammit, and you'll make plenty of night soil. This isn't fucking brain surgery. Oh my god, don't get me started on the brain surgeons.

Unnie boy, I gotta tell you, this shit is exhausting, but it's worth it. The people will fucking love you for it. I mean, have you seen how many pictures there are of me in Pyongyang? They're in, like, every house and in each subway car of the city metro. I didn't even ask for that—they just do it of their own free will. But hey man, if they're looking for a dude to exalt as a living god on earth, they could do a lot worse than me. We're talking about a cat who graduated with honors from Kim Il-Sung University and went on to win the the Kim Il-sung Order and the Kim Il-sung Prize in his lifetime. Swish!

So yeah, you've got some major shoes to fill, Junior. Size 14, EEE, is what my man servant tells me. And the old maxim about feet size and schlongs is totally on the mark, I can tell you.

Anyway, so pretty soon people are going to be looking to you to start steering the ship. First, you've got to win the elections to become general secretary of the Workers' Party of Korea and chairman of the DPRK National Defense Commission. Everyone thinks that vote is a rubber stamp, but you can't take it lightly. There's that weasely Choe Yong-rim to look out for. I made him premier just so I could keep an eye on that shit stain.

Then there's my sister Kim Kyong-hui—remember when we made her a four-star general last year? I think she's the only one in the country that's not in on that joke. General of the Muff Diver Squad, if you know what I'm saying. And who knows, my retarded brother Kim Pyong-il might make a run for things, if he can tear himself away from all that Polish snatch. Should have drowned him like I did his namesake.

Whatever happens, stick close to my brother-in-law Jang Song-taek—he'll totally be your Karl Rove. And if Jang flakes, give Karl Rove a call: his number's on my Blackberry under the speed-dial "TB." Whatever happens, the important thing is the democratic process is respected and followed to the "T."

Finally, just remember to take care of yourself and have fun. You might be inspired to skip a few meals in a show of solidarity with all the peasants who don't have much grub—or any grubs at all after they've already picked out all the larvae from the dry, cracked soil. Eat for them, my son. Show off that pricey Swiss-constructed smile for those who have seen their teeth fall out one by one due to malnutrition. Take off a couple times a month and check out our pleasure boat with the cork-screw slides. If you're craving for a certain bean cake sold only in pricey department stores in Tokyo's Ginza district—fucking send a guy to get it. Want a pizza? Have an underling go to Italy with a suitcase full of counterfeit $100 bills, and buy yourself an authentic brick oven and a team of chefs to run it. You fucking deserve it.

Oh, and remember to eat plenty of dog penis to keep your Kim Jong-dong as erect and explosive as our ballistic missiles (used for launching satellites for peaceful purposes, of course). We have an heir to produce, after all.

Well that about wraps it up. If you haven't already, call the Russian embalmers (the numbers on the fridge, under the "Explore Montana" magnet), as they'll need to get started pumping my old carcass full of the noxious chemicals that have kept my pappy so pert and waxy these last 18 years. Hopefully my manservant has already jacked the USB spike into my cranium to extract my memories and have them placed in the Kim Jong-bot 216 laying under the Yongbyong cooling tower No. 2. Maybe follow up on that project once you have your feet underneath you. Who knows. If it works, I may behold your chubby visage once again, but with eyes illuminated green in plutonium glow.

Stay sexy,

p.s. — If my manservant has forgotten to do so, can you find the file on this computer named "Stumps" and put it in the trash, and then empty it? If you ever loved or respected your old man, don't open the file, just junk it. Better: just burn this computer in a furnace. Thanks.